jay bird would see 'em, would he tell the
deb'l nuthin' erbout it?"

"Lor', honey, dat 'ud be jes nuts fur 'im; he'd light right out wid it;
an' he wouldn't was'e no time, nuther, he'd be so fyeard he'd furgit
part'n it."

[Illustration: "YER'LL ALL BE HAVIN' DE CROUP NEXT."]

"I don't see none 'bout hyear," said Dumps, looking anxiously up at
the trees. "They don't stay 'bout hyear much, does they, Uncle Bob?"

"I seed one er settin' on dat sweet-gum dar ez I come up de ditch," said
Uncle Bob. "He had his head turnt one side, he did, er lookin' mighty
hard at you chil'en, an' I 'lowed ter myse'f now I won'er wat is he er
watchin' dem chil'en fur? but, den, I knowed _you_ chil'en wouldn't do
nuffin wrong, an' I knowed he wouldn't have nuffin fur ter tell."

"Don't he never make up things an' tell 'em?" asked Dumps.

"I ain't neber hyeard boutn dat," said the old man. "Efn he do, or efn
he don't, I can't say, caze I ain't neber hyeard; but de bes' way is fur
ter keep 'way fum 'em."

"Well, I bet he do," said Dumps. "I jes bet he tells M-O-O-O-R-E
S-T-O-R-I-E-S than anybody. An', Uncle Bob, efn he tells the deb'l
sump'n 'boutn three little white girls an' three little niggers runnin'
erway fum they teacher an' wadin' in er ditch, then I jes b'lieve _he
made it up_! Now that's jes what I b'lieve; an' can't you tell the deb'l
so, Uncle Bob?"

"Who? Me? Umph, umph! yer talkin' ter de wrong nigger now, chile! I
don't hab nuffin te do wid 'im mysef! I'se er God-fyearn nigger, I is;
an', let erlone dat, I keeps erway fum dem jay birds. Didn' yer neber
hyear wat er trick he played de woodpecker?"

"No, Uncle Bob," answered Diddie; "what did he do to him?"

"Ain't yer neber hyeard how come de woodpecker's head ter be red, an'
wat makes de robin hab er red breas'?"

"Oh, I know 'bout the robin's breast," said Diddie. "When the Saviour
was on the cross, an' the wicked men had put er crown of thorns on him,
an' his forehead was all scratched up an' bleedin', er little robin was
settin' on er tree lookin' at him; an' he felt so sorry 'bout it till he
flew down, an' tried to pick the thorns out of the crown; an' while he
was pullin' at 'em, one of 'em run in his breast, an' made the blood
come, an' ever since that the robin's breast has been red."

"Well, I dunno," said the old man, thoughtfully, scratching his head; "I
dunno, dat _mout_ be de way; I neber hyeard it, do; but den I ain't
sayin' tain't true, caze hit mout